


Lawman 1.01 - Pilot

by norgbelulah



Series: Lawman AU [1]
Category: Justified
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:43:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norgbelulah/pseuds/norgbelulah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Had Boyd been given more opportunities, who knows what kind of man he would have been? Had Raylan had opportunities taken away, who knows what kind of man he would have become? I think they are two sides to the same coin.<br/>– Walton Goggins, Interview with Red-Eye Magazine, March 9, 2011</p><p><i>Boyd is the lawman and Raylan is the criminal, but neither can escape their destinies in Harlan County, Kentucky.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lawman 1.01 - Pilot

Boyd’s daddy died in prison, shanked by a fellow inmate, left to bleed out in the showers.  The guards only found him after all the blood had been drained away, like a slaughtered animal, ready to be butchered.  Johnny’s voice over the phone was choked and halting when he told Boyd that.

“I don’t know Boyd, I don’t know,” Johnny said low “I swore I was gonna get out after Bo passed.  I told you that years ago.  The bar is enough for me, I swear.  But Bowman, he’s messed up about it.  He’s talkin’ like he’s gonna pick things up, like he’s gonna get the cartel in here and…”

“Shut up, Johnny,” Boyd hisses.  “I can’t know that.  You can’t tell me that shit.  I’ve got obligations.  You’re gonna rip me in two with that shit.  Don’t. Say. Another. Word.”

“Boyd, just come home.  Just quit that fucking agency and get yourself back to Harlan.  Bo never told anybody what you done.  Nobody knows.  Just come back here and help me sort this shit out.”

“I don’t know, Johnny,” Boyd said.  “I left… I left that place for a reason.”  Boyd didn’t say he was afraid what going back would do to him, more afraid than he had ever been about leaving in the first place.  Back then, he hadn't the time to be afraid of anything but Bo.

“Boyd, Bo is gone.  And I can’t guarantee anybody’s safety anymore.  You gotta help me out here or people are gonna die.  Your people.”

“Jesus, Johnny,” Boyd sighed, feeling defeat.  “I have to get my shit together, okay?  And I... I’m not saying yes or anything, all right?”  He hung up before the man could lay anymore guilt on him.

Four days later, Bowman was dead.  Shot in the chest with his own hunting rifle, sitting at his goddamn dinner table.  Boyd had already gotten the clearance for a leave of absence, so he packed his bag, and drove west, Kentucky bound.

\--#--#--

Raylan closed the store everyday at six pm.  He liked to keep business hours a little later for the miners who would get off at four or five and come to shoot or pick up something for their weekend hunting trips.  Today, he’d kept the till open ten whole minutes after he’d locked up the range for a man and his son pouring over a pair of junior hunting rifles with great ceremony, debating the pros and cons of each, then finally deciding on the cheaper model.  Raylan didn’t mind so much when he saw the grin on the boy’s face as they left, the father’s hand on that little shoulder.

He had just locked the door, and was reaching up for the rope attached to the metal security door when Dewey drove up in his brown and rusted out Olds.  Per usual, the boy forgot to put his vehicle in park in his eagerness to tell Raylan some idle gossip or utter bullshit.

“Well, hello, Dewey Crowe,” Raylan drawled after drawing the door down and locking it. 

He liked the kid well enough.  Despite the fact that the moron was dumber than a pile of bricks, he was eager to please if you gave him simple enough tasks.  He’d been saddled with Dewey because Bo Crowder owed a favor to daddy Crowe and Raylan had owed a favor to Bo, in addition to about ten thousand more dollars fronted to start the business. 

Dewey ran errands for Raylan when they were doing business out the back door and got himself mixed up in drug deals and spent the rest of his time high when they weren’t.  Raylan let him do what he liked, but usually sent him out on a long trip if it seemed like he was getting in too deep anywhere. 

“Raylan,” Dewey said breathlessly, all but sprinted up, now that the car was firmly in place.  “Shit, Raylan.”

At that Raylan was mildly concerned.  There had been nothing but bad news lately in Harlan, all starting with Bo Crowder’s murder in prison.  “You better not be telling me someone else is dead, Dewey Crowe.”

“No, Raylan, it ain’t that,” he replied with a little whimper.  “Uh, I was just talkin’ with a buddy of mine, out at Audrey’s.  An’ this guy, he uh, did some work in Frankfort a while back.”

Raylan squinted at Dewey and put his hands on his hips.  “Boy, everybody knows people are gonna move in on this area now that Bo’s dead.  There ain’t nothin’ we can do about it at this point in time.  We just have to roll with the punches, see who comes out on top and place our bets smart.  Now, I told you that.”

“Yeah but,  Raylan, this guy wasn’t talkin’ about comin’ in.  He was talkin’ about Bowman Crowder.”

“What about Bowman?”

Dewey’s face was writ in fear and uncertainty.  “He was talkin’ about Ava.  And about how he got paid for a hit and he didn’t even have to pull the trigger.”

The bottom dropped out of Raylan’s stomach.  “Shit.”  Frankfort wasn’t just moving in, they’d started a war and won it without anybody knowing.  “You heard anything about Miami?”

Dewey straightened up, probably just remembering that Raylan had asked him to put feelers out to his kin in Florida.  “No, sir.”

Raylan didn’t hesitate.  He grabbed the man by his stupid metal band t-shirt and spun him around and up against the barred metal door.  It shook with a terrifying rattle and bang and Raylan could have sworn he heard Crowe’s teeth rattle too.  “Dewey Crowe,” Raylan growled, “You had best get your head on straight.  I ask you to do something, son, and you get it fucking done.  I don’t have the time, inclination, or luxury of letting you screw around on me.  We’re both gonna end up dead if you don’t do exactly as I say.  So you either listen to what I tell you, do it, and tell me it’s done, or you get the hell out of Harlan.  Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” he whimpered once again and Raylan released him with a death glare. 

He knew Dewey couldn’t go back home, having made too many enemies with his idiocy over the years, and he knew he didn’t have the youth or tenacity to start up again anywhere else.  Raylan was stuck with him, so he’d better make use of the moron.

Raylan walked away from the door, heading to his car, but he kept his eyes on Dewey, who was pathetically trying to collect himself.  “Now, go call up your cousins.  And don’t ask them anything.  You remember what I said?  Wait for them to tell you things.  They’re all as mouthy as you, so you’ll probably hear something interesting.”

“Right,” Dewey said.  “Where are you going?”

Raylan scowled at him.  “I’ve got business, and it’s none of yours, asshole.”

\--#--#--

Boyd went straight to Johnny's bar after exiting the highway.  He couldn't imagine going home, not to his daddy's house with its boarded up windows and covered furniture.  He knew they would have done it up like that when Bo was incarcerated again.  That's what they did after he was put away for six months when Boyd was thirteen and he and Bowman lived with their Uncle John, running dice games and dealing pot with Johnny out the back of the bar.  Sometimes Boyd thought that bar was more home to him than anywhere else, but then he'd always think about the last time he was there and he'd shake that nostalgia off real quick. 

Boyd Crowder didn't have a goddamn home now, hadn't really had one ever.  Not unless you counted the hills, and Boyd supposed he did, despite how long it had been since he’d laid eyes on them.

As he drove through them, cutting down and in and out of hills and hollers, all the while approaching Harlan, he was reminded of how he’d missed them.  He thought it was as much a feeling of homecoming as he would be allowed.  He knew his hometown wouldn’t offer him much comfort and even less welcome.

The bar looked the same as it always had and Johnny looked just like his daddy standing behind it, a towel over his shoulder and a pint glass in one hand.

Boyd felt out of place in his usual shirt sleeves and khaki pants-- the sad results of one's work taking over one's life-- with every other body clad in jeans, t-shirts, and flannel thrown over.  He was getting looks, but no one seemed to recognize him yet, not even Johnny.

He sat at the far end of the bar, and leaned over like old times to find the peanut jar tucked in the corner.

"Hey," Johnny called, annoyed, from the tap, and then his eyes widened as he registered Boyd's toothy smile.  "Well, fuck me sideways.  I think I just seen a ghost.”  His expression faltered, the fact that Boyd really did come back to Harlan registering, but he recovered it quickly and smiled real big at his long lost cousin. 

Boyd realized something must have happened between the time Johnny asked him to come and that very moment.  Someone got to him, offered him something better or threatened him with something worse than a clean slate, and now Boyd knew he was going to have to play his cards real close.  Now, he couldn’t even trust his own kin.

He smiled at Johnny anyway, keeping his eyes straight on him and his expression guileless.  “How do, Johnny?” he asked.

Now Johnny’s smile did really fade and he wandered over to where Boyd sat.  “As well as can be expected,” he replied, looking sideways. 

Even if Boyd hadn’t spent the last fifteen years as an agent and been well trained and well experienced in interrogation, he would have known it for a lie, a hiding of the truth, because this was Johnny. 

Boyd felt, not inexplicably, a weight of sadness settle on him, a familiar one that had been lifted for such a short time upon seeing at least this one part of his family again.  But again he knew they’d stopped being his family twenty years ago, in this very bar.

Boyd did not look towards the back room.  He didn’t want Johnny knowing for sure that Boyd was thinking about that day, his mistake, and his father’s terrible anger, his final condemnation.

Johnny grinned and threw his towel down on the bar.  “A round on the house,” he called, “In celebration of my prodigal cousin, Boyd, returned to Harlan from far off and unnamed lands.” 

Johnny smirked when Boyd raised his eyebrows.  “You ain’t the only one who reads, asshole,” he said low, under the shouts of thanks and good natured welcome thrown at them both.  Boyd laughed and gave his thanks for the warm reception, bought and paid for by free booze.

The first round, on the house, and the second, on Boyd, had gone around when finally, inevitably, the subject of Ava was brought up.  No one mentioned precisely what had happened that widowed Boyd’s sister-in-law, and certainly no one spoke of what brought circumstances to such a deadly and tragic head. 

It was innocent enough at first.  Johnny hadn’t even been speaking that loud when he asked Boyd, “You planning on seeing Ava?”  But he said it with hesitation, like there would be some uncertainty of what Boyd would be going there to do.

Boyd leveled his gaze on his cousin, and realized just how long it had been since the last time they’d regarded each other thus.  Johnny’s eyes were older, worn by wrinkles around the edges from squinting in the dim neon lights of that musty old bar, and peering down the scope of his hunting rifle.  “Ava is my sister, Johnny.  I will go there to offer her whatever help I can.”

Johnny didn’t say anything, but Bill Mooney, slumped next to Boyd, raised his glass.  “Now, Ava,” he said, his twang slurred by alcohol and toothlessness, “that’s a mighty fine piece.”

General grunts of agreement were thrown about the room and Boyd felt himself go stiff, rigid with a kind of anger he hadn’t felt in a long time.  Protective and fierce.

“Must be an empty house, that,” another man commented from near the pool table.  Boyd didn’t know him, and he didn’t really care to know him.  “I’d like to take--”

“I believe,” Boyd cut the man off, turning to the room and speaking loud enough and with enough authority that he knew he had all the ears in there trained on him, “that I just told Johnny, here, that Ava Crowder is my sister.  If anybody wants to make any comment about the state of her affairs, or the general quality of her appearance, be my guest.  But know, if I ever get wind of it.  If I ever get a fuckin’ whiff of something foul coming around that woman or her property, I will bring the full force of my considerable means down around your collective heads.”  He scanned his eyes wildly about the room, memorizing faces, making sure they knew he saw them.  “And think about it, gentlemen, you don’t know where I’ve been for the past twenty years.  You don’t know who I know, you don’t know what I’ve done, or of what deeds I am capable.  What you do know is that I am a goddamn Crowder and my father’s last living son.  You think about that real fuckin’ hard.”

Boyd looked around the room once more, cast a foreboding glance at Johnny and walked out the door, leaving silence and uncertainty in his wake. 

He’d driven at least ten miles towards his brother’s house before he fully realized all that he’d implied by those statements.  He felt the gooseflesh on his arms rise as he wondered just what the hell he thought he was doing talking to those men like that, and just what in God’s name he was going to do if one of them did decide to cross him.

Boyd was toeing an invisible line now that he had not thought to draw within steps of in years.  It had taken him a long time to shake the prideful, back-country attitude to which he’d been bred. 

City-living and a bureaucratic job had taken away much of his arrogant bite in the last decade or so, and he had thought that it was as much his growing up as it was his growing away from Harlan.  He’d thought fist-fights over petty insults and women, holding grudges, and making threats were as much of a young man’s prerogatives as they were a Crowder’s, or what he at least had been raised to believe was a Crowder’s.

Now that he’d seen himself back home, to Harlan and to his forgotten legacy, or whatever it was he had here, Boyd was starting to wonder if he could stop himself from falling into old patterns.  Could he escape becoming the man his father had wanted him to be, before all the trouble, before he was made pariah and forced into that outside world that had so changed him?  And now that he was home again, if he could still call it that, which Boyd did he want to be, Boyd the modern man, the lawman, or a goddamn Crowder, his father’s last living son?

“I’m not staying,” he told himself out loud. 

He’d come here to make sure no one was hurt, he could still do that and retain himself, retain his morals and his obligations on both sides.  He would see Ava, make sure she was all right, he would get the truth from Johnny, and then he would leave again.  He would not be the Crowder kingpin of Harlan County, he would not. 

For the last twenty years he’d striven to be exactly what his father would not have wanted him to be, first out of spite and then out of real desire to be a better man.  He’d succeeded, more than succeeded, really.  Perhaps building a life from nothing but anger and stubborn grit hadn’t made him the happiest of men, but Boyd knew he wouldn’t have been any happier living under his daddy’s thumb in Harlan. 

He wasn’t about to go ruining all of that work by ending up right back where Bo had wanted him in the first place.  Not after what happened between them, and especially not after how Bo had finally gotten himself killed.  Boyd knew the kind of life that Harlan offered men like himself and men like his father only ended in death, and it was usually the death of many, not just one.

“I will not stay,” he said again, and hoped desperately it was not a lie.

There was a pick-up truck and a jeep parked outside of Bowman’s— no, Ava’s house.  Boyd had been there before, when it was a grade school friend’s home.  He’d smiled a little when Ava wrote him in a Christmas card nearly ten years ago that they’d moved from their tiny mine housing bungalow to the Kellys’ old place. 

Boyd had always liked that house.  It had been his one example as a young child of what a happy nuclear family could look like.  He felt sorry that the place hadn’t been able to bring about that same happiness for his brother and Ava and then he wondered briefly if it had been they who failed the house.  He dismissed that thought as both insanely anthropomorphic and not fair to the couple, or at least to Ava.

He climbed out of his car and up the porch to knock on Ava’s door.  It was obvious she had company, but he saw no use in waiting.  This encounter was already going to be strained at best and painfully awkward at worst.  He thought he was prepared for whoever would be there, an older co-worker, a friendly, sympathetic neighbor.

Boyd was not prepared to see Raylan Givens through the screen door, shirtless and standing in front of an open refrigerator.

Struck dumb and muscles frozen, Boyd hadn’t even knocked yet, but somehow Raylan heard him.  The boy—no, the man turned his dark eyes, shadowed further by wariness and suspicion, towards the door where Boyd stood, obscured by the screen and the waning light.

Raylan Givens’ right arm made a half-motion, quickly stilled, that Boyd easily picked up on as reaching for a firearm that wasn’t there.  Boyd reminded himself this was Harlan, and this was not the nineteen-year-old boy that he’d known.

He put on a smile, a big old wide one, and raised his hand in a friendly half-wave.

Raylan recognized him instantly, he could tell.  His eyes widened, his mouth fell open and he stood just as still as Boyd had only seconds before.  Boyd wondered how long he would take to recover and resolved to wait.

He looked the same, very nearly and just as effortlessly the same as the boy Boyd had last seen when he drove away from the bar that night, his last night in Harlan.  That face, that same face, had been the last he’d looked upon in Harlan until that very day.  Raylan was searching his eyes and Boyd felt something rise up in him, a feeling he’d forgotten or had only imagined he’d ever felt in the first place.

“Raylan, Lord, what is takin’ you so long?”  A woman’s voice came from the top of the stairs at the same moment Boyd realized he could very well be in over his head.

Raylan didn’t look away, but he stopped his search and just held on to Boyd’s gaze as he replied, “You got a visitor, Ava.”

By then, she’d come far enough down the stairs to see him.  “Oh my God,” she said.  “Boyd.”  She was wearing house slippers, fuzzy pink ones, and a terrycloth bathrobe of a pale, faded blue, with nothing discernible underneath.  He imagined, if he could see her eyes well enough, that the robe would be the exact same shade.

He smiled again, his former confident expression having faded in the face of Raylan’s eyes.  “Hey, Ava,” he said as if he came around all the time, as if he’d met her twice a week at this door and not twice since she’d been married

“Oh my God,” she said again in a kind of fearful way, and snapped, “Raylan, get up there and put a goddamn shirt on.”

Raylan’s attention cracked from Boyd to her like lightning between storm clouds and then cracked right back again.  Boyd didn’t say anything, he didn’t know what to say and he thought very probably that Raylan didn’t either.

Except he did speak, lower than a whisper, he said, “Too long.”

Boyd closed his eyes, feeling that sadness he’d felt at the bar, at seeing Johnny, come over him again.  He didn’t know if Raylan had intended him to hear.  It hardly mattered, however, because Raylan was right.  It was too long; nothing could be picked up again, not like where they’d left it.  And maybe that was for the best.

So, Boyd smiled politely and looked away, and Raylan mounted the stairs without even saying “hello.”

Ava stared at him as if he’d just landed from another planet then seemed to shake herself and smile.  “Oh my God, Boyd,” she said coming down the last few steps and crossing the entry way to the door where he still stood, “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t give him time to answer before she pulled him into a big, sisterly hug.  She held him for a long time, and Boyd held on too, as long as she wanted.

“I can’t,” she said as she pulled herself away, but broke off abruptly.  “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t...”

He could tell she was trying to find some way to apologize without actually feeling sorry for what she’d done and without blatantly lying to him, so he just replied, “Ava, don’t.  Please.  I understand.  Truly.”

She looked at him like he was Jesus Christ and Santa Claus all rolled into one, but then she shook her head.  “He was your brother.”

“And I knew what he was like.  I don’t blame you.”  Boyd’s hands were still on Ava’s bare arms and he squeezed them, very faintly, to try and convey to her that he meant this.  He wouldn’t have come otherwise.

She took a deep breath and nodded, then seemed to realize they were still standing on the threshold.  “Oh Lord, I don’t know where my head is at these days.  Come in, Boyd.  Do you want somethin’ to drink?”

Boyd smiled and followed her inside.  “Anything you’ve got, Ava.”  He stopped short when Raylan descended the stairs once more.  Their eyes met again, but Raylan’s looked away first, his mouth seeming to harden.  He was wearing a button down flannel and a dirty blue baseball cap.  He had a piece stuffed into the back of his jeans, Boyd thought perhaps it was a Beretta M9, but he couldn’t be certain with the shirt laid over it. 

Too long, Raylan had said.  Damn right, Boyd told himself and pulled his lips into something polite when Ava handed him a glass of iced tea.

“There’s a little bourbon in it,” she said with a giddy smile.

Raylan made some kind of noise behind them and she turned, a guilty expression came over her beautiful features and she said breathlessly to the room, or more likely to herself, “Okay, okay.”

Boyd kept his mouth shut, knowing anything he said at this point, even assurances that he wasn’t judging anybody, would not make things easier.

Ava seemed to have collected herself in just a few scant moments, because she smiled again, big and false, and said sweetly, “Now, I’m gonna go take a shower, because by God I know I must look a fright, and when I get back down, you,” she pointed at Boyd, “had better be waiting for me in the living room and you,” her voice hardened at Raylan, “had better be gone.  All right?”

Boyd nodded and Raylan made that “hmm” sound of agreement that he used to when Boyd would ask him if he wanted another beer.

“All right then,” she said and pushed passed them both.

Boyd took a sip from his drink, gauging just how much booze Ava had put in it, before he looked back at Raylan.  The man was studying him something fierce, but it wasn’t the searching he’d been doing previously.  Boyd supposed he had somehow been found wanting and he wished desperately for a moment to ask Raylan what the hell he’d been looking for.

“You want something to drink before you go?”  Boyd finally asked.

Raylan squinted at him then said slowly, “I hope you don’t have any ideas that this is your house now that Bowman is dead.”

“Not at all,” Boyd said evenly.  “I hope you don’t have any that it’s yours.”  He had no idea what had gone on between these two people, but he knew Ava hadn’t shot one husband just to replace him with another.  She would never have done something so cold-blooded.

Raylan’s mouth tightened and he didn’t answer, just turned for the door.

“Raylan,” Boyd said after him, the name just jumping right out of his mouth and the man stopped in his tracks.

“What?”  His voice was tight with some strained emotion and, shit, Boyd really was in over his head.

“I sold your truck.”  I was the only thing he could think to say.  It was inane and very much beside the point, but he had been feeling guilty about it for nearly twenty years.  “Thanks, for letting me take it,” he rambled on.  “I sold it... to pay for school.”

At the change in Raylan’s expression, Boyd realized only too late he shouldn’t have said that at all, ever. 

“Well, I’m glad it was of some use to you, then,” Raylan replied stiffly.  He’d reached the door, and his hand paused as it leaned the screen open, just a crack.  He looked back at Boyd, slightly over his shoulder and an array of emotions, none of which could be described as one in particular, played across his features then ultimately cleared.  He reached his free hand up to the brim of his cap.  “Boyd,” he said and walked out the door.

“Raylan,” Boyd returned just as the door slammed between them.

\--#--#--

Shit shit shit.  Raylan cursed Boyd Crowder three times over inside his head and low on his breath as he fled to his truck.  “What the hell are you doing here, you sonovabitch?”

He shook his head and tried not to think of how different the man looked, with his straight laced clothes and his thinning hair.  He tried not to think about how he wore that same toothy smile and that same electric look in his eyes when they met Raylan’s  He took out his phone and called Dewey.

“Yeah?”  The boy’s voice sounded vague.

“You ain’t high, are you, Dewey Crowe?  Not after what I told you today,” Raylan demanded.

“No,” now he was louder.  “I was jus’ sleepin’.”

“Sleeping.  And not talkin’ to your goddamned cousins?”

“I talked to them, Raylan!”  Dewey always did defend himself vehemently.  “They don’t know barely nothin’.  Said something about the cartel moving some meth up north, but they do that all the time.”

“Yeah, asshole, but they did it through Bo before, now they must be workin’ with Frankfort.  Shit.”  Raylan ran a hand through the hair at the back of his head.  “Now, Dewey, you’re certain that friend of yours said he was huntin’ Crowders?”

“Yeah.  Why?”

“‘Cause we have a problem, then.  A big one.”

\--#--#--

Boyd sat in the living room and sipped his drink while he waited for Ava.  He thought he liked the decor.  Commenting or even thinking about such things was not particularly in his repertoire, but he rather enjoyed the way the whole house was put together.  He imagined Ava decorating in a down home kind of manner, like she thought her mother would have, and then adding a few touches that were just hers, like the magnets on the refrigerator or the picture frames between books and magazines on the shelves in the corner.

He thought perhaps he should be trying to figure out how Raylan was tangled up in everything, but he couldn’t muster the motivation to think much about the man after seeing so much of him so unexpectedly.  If he hadn’t heard random bits of news from Johnny over the past few years about Raylan’s troubles with his father getting ill, then his mother, and the crippling debt from  their hospital bills, Boyd would have thought Raylan would be long gone by now, never to return. 

He ached for the man and cursed their reversal of fortune, because every time Raylan had ever told him he wanted to get the hell out of Harlan County, Kentucky, all Boyd could respond with was, “What other place could be any better?”

Of course, there were places better than the town of Harlan, but to Boyd, Harlan County meant the hills, the rolling, soaring hills that Boyd loved.  From the clouds in the sky to the coal in the ground, he’d loved those goddamn hills. 

He’d walk them, all by himself or hunt them with his kin, and that was what made the Crowders a family.  To him it was hunting on the weekends, going to the cabin where you were surrounded by those lovely, musical hills.  To Bo, it was the solidarity of action and not companionship or love, loyalty beyond the words and deeds of your family. 

No matter what they did, you never went outside for help, not like Boyd had done.

“Hey, Boyd,” Ava’s voice called from the stairs, and then down from the kitchen.  “You want another drink?”  He heard the fridge door open.

“No thank you, Ava.  I’m still workin’ on this one,” he returned and blinked a little at the twang that had found its way back into his speech. 

Now, Boyd could put on an accent.  He was an accomplished mimic and he was good at maintaining an accent for long periods of time.  It was one of the things the agents loved about him.  He’d done it before, back at Johnny’s.  He’d wanted to make sure no one thought of him as an outsider, no matter how long he’d been gone.  But this had been an accident of sorts.  He hadn’t been thinking about it at all.

Ava smiled at him when she came into the room, holding a tall glass that looked like it was half whiskey.  Her hair was wet and she’d put on a cotton sun dress, but she’d left her feet bare and she tucked them under herself when she sat down next to him.

When she was situated, her eyes flew to the cleaning supplies Boyd had noticed were left on the dining room table, visible through the doorway.  “Oh damn,” she cried and moved intending to get up again. 

“Don’t worry about it, Ava.  It’s fine,” Boyd assured her.  “I don’t mind a little mess.”

She cringed.  “This mess you do.  Jesus, Boyd.  I was cleanin’ up the… spot on the wall when Raylan got here.”

Something twisted in Boyd’s stomach, but he didn’t think it was grief.  It felt a lot more like pity as he watched Ava’s expression grow more and more agitated.  He put a hand on her arm.  “Leave it,” he said.  “I don’t mind.”

She frowned at him.  “I don’t understand you.”

Boyd tried to smile, but somehow failed and instead offered her a shrug.  “Bowman and I, our relationship is... was what you might call complicated.  Even when we were very small.  But more so after... everything happened.”

She nodded, sipped her drink, and then frowned again.  “It never seemed that way, when we saw you in Nashville those times.”  Boyd had met the newlyweds in Tennessee, where they had spent their honeymoon, back when Boyd had been going to school there.  It was the first time he’s seen anyone from Harlan in three years and also the last until his return.

“We put on a good show,” Boyd said, and this time he did pull off a smile.  He was glad Ava didn’t ask him for clarification on that night.  He figured she’d either heard, or Bowman had told her some lie she could live with.  Someday he’d clear the air, though he wondered if it even mattered now.

The more Boyd thought about it, the more he wondered what it was Bowman had told Ava and how much of it she believed anymore.  “I never did get the whole story on how you ended up with my brother, Ava.  Not that you have to tell me, if you ain’t feelin’ up to it yet.”  He asked, turning his body to her.

“Naw,” she smiled something small and only a little tight, “Well, you know I always followed poor Raylan Givens around like a love-sick puppy in high school, right?”

Boyd returned her smile.  “Yeah, I remember.”  And apparently feelings between them hadn’t changed much in the intervening years

“Well after I turned eighteen, we dated a little, you know on and off.  We’d go to the movies, and he didn’t have much back then, right, so we’d skim liquor from his daddy and he’d just buy me ice cream and that’s all we’d eat for dinner sometimes.  And I thought we were real good together, you know?”  She shook her head a little at him as she spoke and she got this funny half smile on her face when she talked about the ice cream.  Boyd refrained from reminding her he’d asked about Bowman.  He knew she’d get there.

Boyd listened, and he kept on smiling, nodding once or twice for good measure, but he was watching her too.  She was rambling.  It was a thing he’d seen her do only once, in Nashville, when she’d gotten drunk off two shots because she hadn’t eaten at all that day, but Boyd could spot it.  He knew it was something to worry about, if not now, then later.  But he wasn’t about to interrupt her. 

“But he…Raylan that is, he started to get kinda bitter about the baseball thing not working out, and then his daddy getting sick and all those hospital bills.  He started runnin’ more with your daddy and he got a lot more into all that gun shit.”  She paused, obviously not wanting to say explicitly what she meant.  As of now, she could backpedal and say she only meant the range and the store that Boyd already knew he’d borrowed the money from Bo to establish.

But Boyd knew better, and the wary look in her eyes told him he was right when she just let the implication lie, “We started talking a little bit about marriage and the future, but I wasn’t sure.  And one night he told me, if he wasn’t ever gonna get out of Harlan there was no way he was gonna bring a child into the world and raise it in this hell hole.”

She gave him a pained smile, one of remembered sorrow.  “So I left because I knew, even then, I wanted a family.  Then I took up with Bowman after that, and he… he wanted to be like you so much, Boyd.  He knew it was bad, what turned you out of Harlan, but he thought what you decided, about bein’ what your daddy didn’t want was the right thing to do.  So for a long time, he never did anything for Bo.  But he still… he still had that temper.  And when things didn’t go well at the mine, and he couldn’t make it to foreman, he came crawlin’ back.  By then, Bo didn’t trust him, his own son, as far as he could throw him.  And Bowman was mad.”  

She paused again, and swallowed. “He was real mad about that.  Over all that time, through all that trouble he took it out on me… a lot.  So much I don’t think I can ever carry a child to term now, I haven’t been able to four times.”  She said the last flippantly, as if it didn’t matter, and tried for an ironic smile that was almost horrific in its sadness.  “So I’ll never get what I wanted anyway.”

“Oh Ava,” Boyd said, “I’m sorry.  I’m so deeply sorry.  If I had known what he was…”  Boyd trailed off there, because he could have known.  He’d suspected, but he never asked, he hadn’t wanted to feel obligated.  He thought of what Bowman said in Nashville, when Ava was off in the bathroom, “If you ruin this for me, Boyd.  If you tell her about that shit from the bar, I swear to fucking Almighty God, I will kill her first, then you.  <i>I swear it</i>.”

Ava put a hand on his and it just about broke his heart.  “It ain’t your fault, Boyd,” she said.  “You been leading your own life.  That’s all anybody can ever do.”

Her eyes drifted to the door, where Raylan had gone, and Boyd’s followed.  They didn’t speak for a moment and he wondered what she was thinking.  He wondered about her so he wouldn’t have to do his own pondering any more.

Then she said, all in a rush, “I didn’t mean for that to happen... today with Raylan.  Really, I didn’t.  It’s just I wanted something other than... It was me that started it, you know.”  She turned back to Boyd, her eyes wide and desperate for him to believe her.  “Raylan didn’t come here for that.  He never would.”

Boyd smiled.  “I know,” he said gently.  Raylan Givens would do a lot of things, probably a great many more now than he would have when they were young.  But Boyd knew he would never take advantage of a woman in that particular way.

“You think you have business with him, with Raylan,” she very nearly accused him.  Boyd didn’t answer so she continued, “I don’t think you do, Boyd.  I really think you should just go back to Washington.  Not that I don’t appreciate your coming, it’s,” she smiled, beautifully, and somehow Boyd’s breath caught in his lungs, “it’s real good to see you, even after all this time. But, you get yourself involved in the goings on here and you’ll never get out again.  I’d hate to see that happen to you.”

He cocked his head at her and frowned playfully.  “You tired of me already?”  He wasn’t about to be scared off so easily. 

“I know you work with the law, Boyd,” she said flatly, having none of it.  He always liked that she would cut to the chase, just like that, even when she was a girl.  “Folks don’t like that.  When they find out, life will be more difficult for you, especially if you’re gonna dig up Bo’s business.” 

She looked at him with real concern in her face and Boyd wondered what he’d ever done to earn it.  She barely knew him before he’d been thrown out.  They’d only spoken twice over fifteen years ago.

“It’ll be fine,” he replied.  “I may have been gone a while, Ava.  But I do know how to handle these people, personally and professionally.”

“Don’t do that,” she said, her concern turning to anger.  “Don’t underestimate them.  Outsiders always do that, you know they do.  Don’t be that, please, Boyd.”

Boyd stood up swiftly, feeling the burn of embarrassment and his own rising anger.  He tamped it down and kept his voice even.  “I’m not,” he said defensively.  “I watched my father run circles around every other hoodlum in this goddamn county from the time I was three years old.  I know what they’re capable of, I know how they think, and I know I have more cunning in my little finger than every last one of them.  I have fifteen years of experience as a federal agent in and out of the field.  I’ve dealt with men like this and much worse in Nashville, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and the District of Columbia.  I am not that man, Ava.  I know who I’m dealing with, it’s them that don’t.  And I am not here to take up my father’s empire.  I’m here to make sure any danger to what’s left of this family is removed, permanently.  Then, and only then, will I return to Washington.  Now, tell me how I can help you.”

She swallowed visibly, her eyes here wide but they had an angry look, and he immediately regretted speaking to her like that, trying to tell her what she should do or should not do.  She’d shot his brother in the goddamn chest to get away from that kind of hillbilly bullshit.  Before he could get out an apology, she answered, “Fine.  Come with me to Lexington for the hearing.  It’ll be good to have someone there who knows more than me about all this legal stuff.”

He sat back for a second and thought about what he needed to do.  “Yeah,” Boyd said.  “That will work out perfectly.”

“Pick me up tomorrow at seven am?  I have to be at the courthouse by nine for the hearing.” 

He nodded, standing to go.  “That should be fine.  You sure you don’t want to drive?”  He’d hate to let her maintain the impression that he didn’t think she could do anything on her own now that he was here.

She laughed.  “Oh, I’m glad not to.  That Jeep always musses up my hair.  It don’t matter if I’m goin’ into work, I can fix it right up.  But if I have someplace important to be, I like to have a closed in roof over my head.”

He smiled.  “I’d be happy to provide you with wind protection, Ava.”

“It’ll be nice to have the company, too,” she returned and hugged him hard before he took his leave of her, with no trace of the guilt or anger he’d seen earlier.  It was another thing he liked about Ava, she was quick to forgive and forget small grievances.

Boyd wondered what threshold Bowman had crossed; to what precipice he had dragged them both in order to provoke such a response from her.  He resolved not to ask.  Ava would tell him if she wanted to, and if she didn’t want, he couldn’t care less.  There was no doubt her actions were justified.

Johnny was wiping down the bar when Boyd returned from Ava’s.  They looked at each other for a long moment and Boyd did not look at the back room again.  He sat down with a heavy sigh, regretting he could not pour out his sorrows to the bartender.

“Reintroduce me to my old friend Jack, cousin,” Boyd said with a tired smile.  “Give us a little ice to lubricate the conversation.”

“You’re not telling me you only drink Jack in Harlan, are you Boyd?”  Johnny poured it out as fast as his daddy, with just a touch more style.

Boyd laughed.  “Jack Daniels there never tasted like Jack Daniels here.”  He decided not to say the word “home.”  Boyd took the glass from Johnny.  The well worn tumbler fit right into his hand, just as he remembered.  The whiskey tasted thin and harsh, not the rich, amber bite Boyd thought he recalled.  But back then he’d been nineteen and all alcohol had smacked of the exotic, the forbidden.  He didn’t remember when he’d stopped ordering Jack just out of habit.  It must have been sometime after he left Nashville.

He downed it fast and slid the glass down the bar to where Johnny stood.  “Something else, please.  Jim or Wild Turkey or whatever.  Not that again.”

Johnny’s mouth twisted into something that was not a smile or a frown and his eyes were serious.  He pulled a bottle from under the bar and Boyd blinked, that was only for the stuff they didn’t want the drunks to know they had.  It was the stuff you had to know to ask for.  Johnny took another tumbler from out of the sink and poured two glasses.

“It’s some reserve stuff Buffalo Trace ‘stills out in Frankfort,” Johnny said and slid the glass back to him.  “I got it on the cheap at a bar owners’ meeting in Louisville a few months back.  Only the best for a homecoming.”

Boyd hated it when Johnny lied.  But Johnny kept on talking and Boyd kept his eyes on the bourbon.

“I was mistaken, Boyd, when I told you we needed you here.  I... had a scare.  Well, not so much a scare as just a little paranoia.  Maybe it was the shock of Bo’s death, I dunno.  But things are fine.  Really.  You can go back to Washington with a clear conscience.  We were all real happy to see you.”  

Boyd looked up to view the most false smile he’d ever seen on a man’s face.  Johnny’s discomfort was clear and Boyd wondered when he’d become such a shit liar.  Perhaps it was the baldness of the falsehood, and the fact that up until that moment Johnny had been the one Crowder who still treated Boyd like family, the one who’d had the decency to call and inform him of the situation after his father’s death in the first place.

Boyd’s face was as cold as stone, and he was keeping it that way.  “I can’t.  I told Ava I would go with her to the hearing in Lexington.  She needs a hand with the legal matters.  I’ll be giving her what help I can and I’ll be leaving only when I’ve seen this through.  Now, were you going to offer me a room or do I have to find a hotel at midnight with two drinks in me, Johnny?”

In the end, Boyd got the room. 

Johnny was all apologies and false affront that Boyd would even think he didn’t have a place to sleep.  Then he was all concerned glances and silence as he took Boyd through the back room, to reach the empty bunk they kept for employees and regulars who seriously couldn’t make the drive. 

Boyd couldn’t keep his eyes away from the spot where that girl’s blood had pooled on the floor and he laid awake for a long time thinking about it.

\--#--#--

Raylan didn’t usually open the store until ten am, but he was in early that morning, doing the books.  When a knock came on the half-closed security door, he got up to let in little Loretta McCready.

“Hey Raylan,” she greeted him with a smile and squeezed herself through the door.  “You want me to sweep first, or take inventory?”

Raylan considered the grin on the girl’s face when he’d finally said she could do the inventory on bullets and accessories only, never, ever the actual guns, after she’d been sweeping his floors for seven dollars an hour under the table going on a year and a half.  He decided she would shirk the floor in order to get her hands on the stock list as fast as possible, so he waved her into the back and she scampered right past him.

“Thanks,” she called as she threw down her bag and grabbed a pen off his desk.

Raylan came through to the back right behind her.  “How’s your mama doing, Loretta?”  He asked seriously.  He wasn’t close with her family, but he did like to keep a tab on things going on with the girl ever since she snuck into the range side through a window during a gun exhibition Raylan had held two years before.  She watched those guys shoot the afternoon through and when Dewey had found her and tried to chase her out, Raylan had stopped him, because he thought she was funny and had a good amount of spunk.

He gave her shooting lessons in exchange for work, although with air guns to start and later with bullets only under supervision, and she just kept coming so he found more and more things for her to do.  Raylan liked having her around, so he let her stay as long as she wanted to.

“Better, I think,” Loretta answered, though she didn’t sound convinced.  “Daddy’s real happy.  He says she can come home for good soon.”

Raylan smiled and hated the man for lying to his kid, though he wondered if he were in the same place if he’d have the strength to tell the truth.  “Well, that ought to be real nice,” he said and dropped the matter.

She just smiled at him half-heartedly and got to work.  Raylan felt bad for bringing it up at all and got back to work himself.

About a half hour later Raylan heard a noise from the front that sounded like footsteps.  He got up so fast he nearly turned the chair over behind him, but caught it just before it could make any clatter.  He grabbed his gun and turned towards Loretta.  “Out the side window, run home <i>now</i>.”

She stared at him uncomprehendingly and he couldn’t stay to make sure she’d go.  Raylan kept the piece in his hand and walked out into his store where an unfamiliar man stood.

“The store’s closed, sir,” Raylan said gruffly.  “How did you get in?”

The man was funny looking, to say the least.  He had a forehead like Raylan had seen in some SciFi B-movie back when he and Ava were sneaking into the drive-in, his dark little eyes were too close together, and when he smiled he looked like some kind of psychopath.  Raylan knew it was meant to be reassuring and friendly but the expression only frightened him more, making it seem like the man could be capable of anything.  Raylan tightened his grip on the gun.

“Today, I’m going to dispense with my usual speech about security, Mr. Givens, and cut right to the chase,” he said in a tone that failed just as spectacularly to be congenial.  “I got in to your little store here, because I am better at what I do than you are at what you do.  Namely, I am an excellent criminal, and you are at about a second grade level compared to me.”

Raylan worked his jaw.  “I run a respectable business.”

“Out the front door you do, I’m sure.  But you’ve had your toe stuck in the back door for Bo Crowder, running guns and turning a blind eye at anything else the Big Man could sneak through, ever since you took out that loan to open this place.  Now, don’t get me wrong, you were in a tough spot.  And you made a real good turnaround on the place, enough to get yourself out of the bankruptcy that your parents’ health put you in, and almost, almost enough to get you out of Bo’s debt, but not quite.  It really is a shame, because that loan’s about to come due.” 

The man stepped forward, but Raylan didn’t raise his weapon yet, despite how much he wanted to.  His heart was pounding and his hand was itching to shut that man’s face, except he couldn’t, not until he knew who sent him. 

“You see, Mr. Givens,” he said, cracking his knuckles.  “Raylan, if I may.  The people I work for know everything about you, because I make it my business to know these things and they pay me to tell them what I know.”

Raylan couldn’t keep his mouth shut anymore.  “Then you know my debt to Bo died with him.  There was no paper trail on that money.  The payments were in cash, tallied by me and him.  There’s no one left to collect.”  And that was the truth.  It was the only piece of relief Raylan had felt upon hearing of Bo’s demise.

“Ah, ah, ah, Raylan,” the man tsked.  “But knowledge is power, my knowledge of your complaisance with crimes committed by Bo Crowder and his organization, with which you are more than loosely connected.  And knowledge is guilt, your guilt in those crimes and your need to keep this knowledge a well-buried secret.”

“I’m not afraid of the law,” Raylan returned.  He half-wished sometimes that someone would track down his connection to all that gun running.  Then, he wouldn’t have to do it anymore.  “I’m not afraid of doing time.”

The man smiled.  “You know, I sort of thought you might say that.  So, I took the liberty of finding even more information about you, Raylan.  Like the home address of your girlfriend in Lexington.  That sweet court reporter you met at a bluegrass concert, I believe her name’s Winona Hawkins?  You do know she’s married, right?  Although, I have first-hand knowledge that her husband’s an asshole, so you won’t hear any judgment from me.”

Raylan nearly dropped the gun along with his jaw and a cold shock traveled right up his spine.  He tried not to look towards the back room, but he wasn’t thinking right and he knew the instant he gave it away.

“And yes,” the man was almost laughing now.  “I even know the hospital room number of your pretty employee’s sick mama.  So, don’t you think anybody is safe from me, Raylan Givens.  And don’t you think you can get away with not doing exactly as I tell you.  Now, put down that gun.”

Raylan didn’t think he was succeeding at hiding how very frightened he had just become because the man smiled at him cruelly and just waited.

Raylan put down the gun.

\--#--#--

The drive to Lexington seemed fast compared to the long trip Boyd had taken to get to Harlan.  Ava was also an easy passenger.  She had no preference of music and they shared companionable conversation as well as silences. They arrived at the courthouse with time to spare, so Boyd stood with Ava outside as she smoked a cigarette.

She grimaced at him as she exhaled her first puff.  “I been meaning to quit.  I know it’s a tired story, but there it is.”

He smiled understandingly.  “It ain’t that bad, Ava.  I got a coworker who’s been saying that for ten years.  Says it every time he lights one up.  Me hearing it from you the first time isn’t nearly as tired as all that.”

“I’m sure it’s stressful.  Your coworker’s job.  Must be hard to quit with a job like that.”

Boyd looked at her and snorted, “He sits at a desk all day.  It could be worse.  He could be a miner.”  Or a victim of domestic abuse, he thought.

She smirked and dropped the butt, stamping it with her glorious red shoe.  “Ready?”

“If you are.”

Ava’s hearing was scheduled first thing in the morning and it seemed to Boyd as if everything proceeded smoothly.  The case was obviously one of domestic abuse and no one there was mourning a man like Bowman, or seeking retribution.  There was no cause for jail time, no justification to punish Ava any more than she already had been by Bowman himself.

Boyd sat directly behind Ava during the proceedings, in the gallery as near to the bar as he could get.  Only once did she look back at him for reassurance, during the sentencing.  Boyd put on an expression of silent support and she smiled at him uncertainly before turning her attention back to the judge.

She was given probation, a comparatively light sentence to others Boyd had heard of previously, but on that account he couldn’t have been more glad.  She turned right around and embraced him across the bar and he returned it heartily.  He did not comment upon the tears in her eyes and their hands found each other and held fast while they walked out of court.

She smiled at him in the light through the tall windows outside of the courtroom.  “Let’s get some lunch in town then go back to Harlan, all right?”

Ava’s lawyer, a surprisingly slick-looking public defender by the name of Eaves or Eames or something, stepped in and reminded her there was some paperwork to complete before she could be free to go.  She grimaced in distaste and leaned in to speak to Boyd again.  “You don’t need to be around for all that.  I trust him,” she said jerking her thumb towards the lawyer, “to get me through it.  You wanna meet me outside?”

Boyd shook his head.  “I got some business in an office upstairs.”  At her look he raised his hands in surrender and said, “It’s nothing, Ava.  I just want to give the Marshals a heads up about Harlan.  If I can’t be directly involved, someone needs to know that place is ready to blow.”

She frowned, but said nothing to gainsay him.

“I’ll meet you down in the lobby then, when you’re finished,” Boyd smiled at her.

Ava nodded and walked off with her counsel.

The Marshal’s office was on the  third floor and Boyd worked his jaw nervously as he rode it up.  He still wasn’t sure if this was the right course of action, but he knew he had to do something.

Boyd entered the surprisingly spacious office and looked past the administrative staff scattered about at various desks, searching for anyone wearing a badge.  His eyes came to rest on two desks over on the right.  Behind one sat a short-ish black woman, who only an idiot would underestimate, and behind the other was a young man, probably a recent vet and most likely a sniper— Boyd could always identify those by their long stare.  However, at that exact moment, the two were in a glaring match punctuated by subtle glances at Boyd himself, undoubtedly silently battling over who would handle his case, or grievance, or whatever it was he was there for.

“Now, now, children,” an extremely dry voice came from the inner office, and an older, balding man appeared.  “I’ll handle this before either one of your eyeballs fall out of their sockets, all right?”  Boyd was smiling when the man turned directly to him.  “I’m Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Art Mullen, what can I do for you, sir?”

When he held out his hand Boyd took it, immediately liking the man.  He took out his wallet and flashed his badge.  It felt strange that he hadn’t showed it to anyone in a few days.  “Well, Chief, my name’s Boyd Crowder and I’m a Special Agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.”

The Chief’s eyebrows drew upwards.  “You’re from Louisville?  Sorry, but you don’t look familiar, Agent Crowder.”  Boyd saw the man narrow his eyes at him, probably placing the name as one that had been going around a lot lately.

He smiled thinly.  “No, I work out of Headquarters in DC, sir.  Feel free to check my credentials, if you like.  I’m here in Kentucky on a personal matter.  You see, you may have heard of my father, Bo Crowder.  He ran some ‘businesses’ in Harlan County until his incarceration and untimely death last week.  You may have also heard that my brother, Bowman, was shot dead a few days ago by his wife.  I think the story made the papers.”

Now Art Mullen and his two deputies were staring openly at him and Boyd felt the shock of their scrutiny.  Saying it all at once like that did make it sound rather like a Shakespearean tragedy.

Unsurprisingly, it was the Chief that recovered first, followed shortly by the woman, who was presumably typing Boyd’s name into her database.  “Well,” Art drew it out dry just like everything else he had said up to that moment, “what is it that I can do for you, Agent?”

“You can keep an eye on Harlan County, if you would, Chief.  I’ve obviously been... out of the loop, shall we say, for some time.  But coming home now, even I can see the place is a powder keg.  My father’s death has left a power vacuum and it’s not completely clear what organization will fill it.”

Art frowned and asked, “Now, why would you come to us with this?  I understand you’re not down there in an official capacity, but wouldn’t you be best served handing this off to your division in Louisville?”

Boyd shook his head.  “Louisville’s proximity is not as near as yours is to Harlan, you’re in a much better and more immediate position to actually do something there.  I’ve kept an eye on the region for obvious reasons over the years, and until now it’s been relatively quiet as far as large operations go.  It’s mostly just a conduit for the southern cartels, a place for drugs to come through, as I’m sure you know.  My father’s death is a game changer, and anything that happens now will happen swiftly.  ATF doesn’t have the men in place or the investigational leg work for any kind of operation to prevent that.”

“And you think we do?”  Art replied bluntly, and then looked around.  “Here,” he said more quietly.  “Come on into my office.  Tim,” he said to the younger man.  “You got the prisoner transport, yes?”

“Yessir,” Tim answered.

“You go on to that.  Rachel, in my office when you have that information.”  Rachel just nodded and Boyd followed Art in.

They sat, Art behind his big wooden desk and Boyd in a chair right out in front.  The room had a lawman’s feel about it, wooden paneling and picture of the president and everything.  Boyd wanted to smile at the familiarity of it, but knew the subject at hand was too serious for such frivolity.

“Now, Agent Crowder,” Art said and folded his hands in front of him and placed them on his desk, like he was praying to the god of jurisdictions.  “I’m just a little confused as to why you decided to bring this to us, and not to your own Agency, or even the local law enforcement down there in Harlan.”

Boyd let himself smile politely.  “Well, just now I’ve told you about why I came to you before contacting Louisville.  But I can see how you might be confused about why I have not gone to the State Police or to the Harlan Sheriff's Department, at least in regards to any specific crimes that may occur in the near future.  You don’t happen to know anyone from down in those parts, do you, Chief?”

“No,” he replied, sounding a bit relieved that he didn’t.  “I can’t say that I do.  And please, call me Art.”

“Certainly, Art,” Boyd grinned.  “You call me Boyd, then.” 

Art gave him a “we’ll see” kind of look so Boyd just continued.  “Well, it’s a real distinct culture down there, Art.  And in order to give you a proper idea of what’s preventing me from doing the kinds of things I’d like to do with this situation, the proper procedure, as I’m sure you’d agree, I’m going to have to tell you a rather personal story.  Do you mind?”

If Art had any suspicions that Boyd was wasting his time, he didn’t voice them and they didn’t show on his face as he said, “No, of course not.”

Boyd steeled himself for the telling of this tale and pre-ambled it by saying, “Obviously this story deals with some unsavory characters, with my father’s former business, though not much of that, and also with some criminal activity.  I believe it all comes under the statute of limitations for the crimes committed, all except one and the perpetrator of that crime is now dead.  I trust that what I tell you will regardless be kept in strict confidence?  It has little bearing on what’s happening now in that town.”

Art nodded, albeit a little dubiously and just then Rachel, the other deputy, came in with a folder in her hands.

“My file, I assume?”  Boyd asked.  “Feel free to take a look before I begin.”

“No, I think it will keep,” Art said, splaying his fingers across the manila folder Rachel had just placed in front of him.  “Rachel, Agent Crowder was just about to tell us a story.  Apparently, it’s chock full of criminals and hillbillies and it’s going to explain to us why he’s here.”

Rachel offered Art the kind of smile you give a man you know well enough to put up with his sense of humor gracefully and then transferred it to Boyd as the kind of smile you give someone who hasn’t yet come to appreciate it on the same level you do.  Boyd smiled right back at her.  “By all means,” she said quietly and settled herself by leaning against the sideboard, arms crossed.  Boyd decided he liked her as well.

“Well,” Boyd began,” to put it bluntly, my father ran all the crime in Harlan right up until the day he died.  He was the big man in those parts, even when my brother and I were boys.  Now, I know you’ve heard of Bowman, my unfortunate brother.  You’ve heard he beat his wife, and you’ve heard she killed him for it.  I bear no anger or resentment towards her for what she’s done, and apparently neither does the state of Kentucky, for that matter.  But that’s hardly my point.  My relationship with my brother has always been somewhat strained.  His being the younger son, and spoiled in my opinion, was probably the beginning of it, but he also had always been... foul of temper.  Even when he was very young.”

Boyd paused and thought a moment before continuing, “When I was nineteen and Bowman was seventeen there was an... incident.  I’d really rather not get too into the details.”  He’d decided on omitting how Bowman had played poorly that night on the field, when a scout from U of K had been on the bleachers, and how Bo had been gone much of the previous months, meeting contacts in Florida and Alabama.  Since their father hadn’t been around to check Bowman’s behavior, a task at which Boyd had never been quite as skilled, Bowman had been under the impression that he could get away with quite a bit.

“Suffice to say that Bowman was not in the greatest of spirits one night while we were drinking at my Uncle John’s bar.  Us bein’ family and everything, we fairly had the run of the place and no one thought for a second about giving alcohol to a minor, such as my brother was at the time.  He was a football star and he always got anything he asked for, if not from family, then from coaches or friends and well-wishers,” Boyd said and thought of all the gifts Bowman had received in those two years, from old alumni and prominent community members.  He thought of all the girls who’d fawned over him and given him more than he deserved in sexual favors, more than he’d ever returned, anyway.  All save one.

Boyd shook his head, not meaning to skip from one subject to another, but unable to stop himself from saying, “I’ll never know how Bowman got so many girls, it couldn’t have just been the football.  I mean, we both take after our daddy, maybe Bowman a little more than me and he wasn’t ever any prize bull, if you know what I mean.  And Ava, his wife, is the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen.  But I digress, at that time, Bowman had started to expect... things from people, most often from girls in school with him and maybe those just out too, girls my age, and when he didn’t receive them, he’d let loose that temper.”

Boyd could tell that his audience knew where this story was going and it was obvious they didn’t yet grasp what this had to do with what Boyd was doing now.  He tried to speed up the tale, but he felt himself bogged down by remembered details, those things he had tried to forget, because there was nothing left to do but brood on them after it was all over.

“There was this girl, who’d hang around with us.  She wasn’t a Crowder, but she was close kin, a second cousin on my father’s side.  She was fifteen or so, I think, and her name was Charlotte.  Bowman liked her, mostly because she was pretty and she knew football.  She’d give him compliments on his play and she was smart as a whip about it, too.  I liked the girl as well, but I didn’t like it when she’d come to the bar with us.  She was too young.  She didn’t look like she belonged there yet.  And Bowman, he got it into his head that she was crushin’ on him, that she wanted... you know.  When in reality, I think it was just a little innocent hero worship and she wanted to feel like one of the big kids.”

Art shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Boyd, but is this going anywhere any time soon?”

“My apologies, Art,” Boyd replied, “I just haven’t told this story in... quite a while.”

Rachel smiled.  “Cut the man some slack, Chief, he’s telling it well.”

Art raised his hands in surrender then proffered them, motioning Boyd to continue.

Boyd girded himself further and stained to put the rest of the tale into as few words as possible.  “Bowman put the girl in a compromising position, in front of everyone gathered in the bar’s back room.  We were all family there, mind you, all close kin.  Charlotte wouldn’t have it, she smacked him in the mouth, but before she could get away he’d clocked her one and she fell hard against a shelf along the wall.  It knocked her out and cut open her head.  She was bleeding all over the place.”  Boyd didn’t say that the expression on Bowman’s face after was terrifying.  There was no recognition, no remorse for what he’d done.  He was still angry at her for denying him, even when it was clear something was terribly wrong.

“Now, here, and again I apologize for taking so much of your time on this, is where I come to the point of my story.  What would you have done in this situation, Art?  Rachel?  You would call for help, right?  Call 9-1-1.”

“Of course,” Rachel replied quickly, her eyes wide.  Art nodded, more slowly, perhaps catching on.

“Of course you would,” Boyd said.  “But doing the obvious thing, the most sane thing you could do when you’re staring at your cousin, bleeding out from a head wound, was the hardest decision of my life.  And it still shames me to this day, how long I took to make that decision.”

“Why?”  Rachel asked, obviously at a loss.  He arms were no longer crossed, and while she hadn’t moved from her spot at the sideboard, she was leaning closer to him.

“The code in those hills, the way of life is family first, clan first.  For me, it was always Crowders first.  My brother was the one who struck that girl down.  He was guilty of a very serious crime.  The law in those parts, or at least the State Police, would have jumped at the chance to put any of us away for any little thing, because of my father.  The Sheriff was too afraid of him to do anything like that and we were lucky that it was his department along with the paramedics that came to the scene first.  Another, equally important code is that you never, under any circumstances, go to the law.  Even for help.  But I... I watched that blood come out of her and it was so slow, terrifyingly slow.  None of us moved, Bowman was still yelling about how he’d fucking kill her, except really, he already had.  And none of us knew.  They were all looking at me, because I was the oldest and I told Johnny, my cousin, whose daddy owned the bar, to call the police.  And after they took her away, when my father came and screamed at us, demanding to know who it was that called, I took that responsibility.  It had been my decision and he threw me out for it.”

“I’m sorry, what?”  Art’s question was echoed in the expression on Rachel’s face.  “You’re saying he threw you out, of his home, of your family, for calling 9-1-1 in an emergency?”

Boyd mouth twisted, tasting something foul because of their shock, their disbelief that a father could do such a thing.  “Yes.  In many parts of Harlan County, for many families, you do not turn to the law under any circumstances.  These are the kind of people I grew up with, and the kind that I am trying to deal with in the wake of my father’s murder.  I cannot be seen to have any connection to a local, state, or federal law enforcement agency.”

“These people don’t know what you do for a living?”  It was Rachel asking now, somehow her face looked a little bit more kind than it had before and Boyd smiled at her.

“My father effectively disowned me.  I responded by doing everything in my power to become the kind of man he would never have wanted me to be.  So no, he did not tell anyone where I went or what I did.  I saw my brother and cousin once in a very long while, but they kept their mouths shut and I haven’t been back until now.”

“Well, shit,” Art sat back in his chair.  “That’s quite a story, Agent Crowder.  So, I’m guessing that you want us to contact the State Police, ask them to keep an eye on things as well?”

“That would certainly be welcome.  To tell you the truth, I’m concerned about movement from the Miami cartel.  I know that my father dealt with them quite a bit over the years, so any activity from their end should be monitored.  And, rest assured, I will be contacting Louisville via phone, but feel free to liaise with their office on your own.  I understand that I can’t act in any official capacity right now, as I’ve taken a personal leave of absence, but please ask me any questions you might have about the region or the people down there.  I’ll try and give you what information I can.”

“All right,” Art said.  “Rachel, get his number please.”

“It’s in the file, sir,” she replied smugly.

Art glared at her in a rather fond way.  “The number they have on file, that’s your cell?”

“It’s forwarded to my cell, yes,” Boyd answered.

“And how long do you plan to be in the area, Agent Crowder?”

Boyd frowned uncertainly and didn’t like that he did not have a ready answer for a rather reasonable question.  “Until I am satisfied that what remains of my family is safe from interlopers in Harlan.”

Art’s frown matched Boyd’s and then exceeded it in seriousness as he said, “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Rachel sighed.  “It means he doesn’t know, Art.”

Boyd left the Marshal’s office feeling satisfied that he had finally done something productive about the situation in Harlan.  When he came down to the lobby he immediately saw Ava, sitting on a bench in the corner by the elevator, but he was struck by the fierceness of her expression as she stared someone down in the center of the expansive room.

He turned to see that she was staring at Raylan Givens, in Lexington for God knew what reason, and speaking earnestly with a rather beautiful woman in the middle of the courthouse lobby.  Boyd suddenly recognized the woman from earlier that morning.  She was the court reporter from Ava’s hearing and she looked goddamn pissed at Raylan.  They were fighting like lovers, standing too close for comfort, his hand on her arm, her eyes stuck fast to his, and Boyd’s heart went out to Ava.

He approached her quietly and touched her on the arm, putting a hand out to steady her when she started.

“Oh, hey,” she said and seemed to be trying not to lock her gaze back on the couple in front of them.  “I was about to send out a search party.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Boyd replied.  “I got bogged down in some details with them, tryin’ to make my case.”

“Do you think you did?”  Her question was sincere and Boyd smiled at her interest.

“I hope so, but I’m afraid there’s not very much to be done right now.  Hopefully, they’ll be able to front a proper investigation, if they get the Staties on their side.”

Ava raised her eyebrows and said, “Is that why you went up to them, so you could get the State Police on this without anybody findin’ out?”

“You really are a very smart woman, Ava.” Boyd said and she hit him on the arm.  But her gaze quickly swept back to Raylan and the court reporter.

“I can try and sneak you out the back,” Boyd offered.  “I got me some connections now.”

Ava laughed, albeit half-heartedly.  “You’re gonna have to stop being so understanding soon, Boyd, or I’m going to start to think you aren’t the same man.  You don’t act like any son of Harlan.”

“You’re right,” he said and smiled only a little sadly.  “I’m not, on both counts.” 

She looked at him like she didn’t quite believe him.  He held out his arm to her and she took it with purpose.  “Let’s just go out the front like normal people,” she said.

As they walked, Boyd murmured to her, “Well, I guess we’re puttin’ one over on everybody.”  She stifled a giggle and as they passed Raylan, who looked just as surprised to see them as Boyd had been to see him the previous day.  “Raylan,” Boyd said and inclined his head, seeing Raylan’s eyes widen.

“Who is that?”  The court reporter hissed in their wake.  “Raylan, what the hell is going on?”

“Please, Winona,” Boyd heard only the beginning of Raylan’s plea, but something did not sit right with him about it.  Raylan had sounded more desperate than he should have if it was only a lovers’ quarrel.

He turned his head around at Raylan as they walked and the look in his eyes told Boyd that something was wrong.  But as he stopped to go back and try to talk to the man, Raylan was already pulling the woman out of the lobby, towards a side hallway, and away from view.

“Shit,” Boyd said.

“What?  What is it?”  Ava turned to look at him, concern etched along the faint lines of her face.

He turned them both back towards the door.  “Nothing,” he replied, knowing it wouldn’t do to make Ava worry, especially not about Raylan.  “It’s probably nothing.”

“Does Johnny have you in that musty old back room of his?”  Ava asked when they were maybe two minutes from her house on the drive back.

“Yeah, but it’s not so bad.”  Boyd faked that smile pretty well.

“The hell it isn’t.  You’ll stay with me tonight,” she said firmly.  “And I won’t hear otherwise.  It’s the least I can do since you came with me today.  I’ll make up the spare room for you real nice, Boyd, and it’ll be better than a cot next to the furnace.”

He glanced from the road to her expression and could tell it brooked no argument. “All right, Ava.  But I left some stuff over at Johnny’s.”

She smiled, thoroughly victorious, and said, “Well, why don’t you drop me off now, go get your things and I’ll have dinner cookin’ by the time you get back.”

“Now, that sounds like a plan,” he replied.

The bar was dead when Boyd entered.  Just two drunks on either corner of the bar and one dozing in a booth near the back.  “Hey, Cousin,” Johnny called, emerging from under the bar where he was changing out a tap.

“Hey Johnny,” Boyd said.  “Listen, thanks for putting me up last night it was real hospitable of you.  But I’m gonna take myself over to Ava’s for the rest of my stay.  She’s got a better set up for guests, I believe, with her spare room and stocked kitchen.”  Boyd was trying to make light of it, worried that Johnny would take his mock offense again despite how obvious it was he didn’t actually want Boyd staying there. “I just gotta get my things, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Boyd went in, looking for a long moment at the corner where Charlotte bled out on them, picked up his bag, stopped to hook his holstered weapon onto his belt, and walked back out to the front.  He was about to walk right by and out to the car, but the expression on Johnny’s face stopped him.  The man was obviously wrestling with something. 

Boyd looked at him, caught in the dim sunlight from the half-painted over windows he looked older still that he had when Boyd first saw him again after all those years.  “What is it, Cousin?”

Johhny took a second more with it and then spoke flatly, “Don’t go back over there.  Just get out now, Boyd.  Go home.” 

Boyd turned a considering eye towards his cousin.  He couldn’t decide if Johnny was being extraordinarily human, or extraordinarily stupid.  “Johnny, what do you know?” 

Johnny shook his head, trying to look hard, but betraying his well-buried fear.  “They said they’d keep me out of it if I kept my nose clean and my mouth shut.  You make me tell you, you as good as killed me yourself.” 

Now, Boyd was pissed. Why dangle the information if he wasn’t gonna give it up?  Why keep it from Boyd in the first place?  If Johnny knew anything about Boyd, he knew there was no way he was going to leave now, especially if someone was threatening his people’s lives.  “You’re supposed to be a Crowder, Johnny.  You gonna hang me out to dry?” 

“Yeah, I’m a Crowder.  The last one, if you ask me, ‘cause you ain’t been one since that night you made me call the law.” 

They stung, those words.  They stung worse than the words Bo had used to throw him out.  “That’s my daddy talkin’, not you.  That, and your fear.”

Johnny snorted.  “Whatever lets you sleep at night, Boyd.” 

“Fuck you, Johnny,” Boyd said and walked out.

When Boyd saw Raylan’s truck parked outside Ava’s, he took his gun out of its holster.  He didn’t want to walk in there carrying a weapon like a lawman, so he tucked it into his belt, at the small of his back.  It wouldn’t do at all at this point to go anywhere unarmed.

Boyd knocked at the door, with purpose.

Ava came immediately and there was a troubled strain in her expression.  “I didn’t call him, I swear, Boyd.  He just came over.  And he was acting real weird and he just got more weird when I told him you were comin’ back.”

Boyd put his hand on her shoulder to steady her and she leaned into him, something had her really shaken.  “Weird, how?” he asked, but she didn’t have time to answer.

“Boyd,” Raylan called from the dining room and it was almost like they’d been transported back in time twenty years.  Raylan could have been calling him from just outside the hole, always the first person he saw when he came up from the black.  “Get in here.”

Boyd went, blinking like he was trying to get the sun out of his eyes.

Raylan was sitting at the far end of the table, away from the door, but still facing it.  Cornered, Boyd thought, but he’d put himself there.  There was some kind of smile on his face, though it looked stretched funny, and there was a gun sitting on the pristine white tablecloth.  It was the Beretta M9 Boyd thought he had spotted before and Raylan’s hand was inches from it.  “Bet you’re surprised to have one more for dinner, huh?”  Raylan asked.

“Not real surprised,” Boyd answered slowly, trying to speak and evaluate the situation simultaneously.  “Seeing as you always seem to be here when I come to call on Ava.  But, the more the merrier, I like to say, and it’s always good to catch up with old friends.  You got the food ready?”  He looked at Ava as he said the last. She was lingering in the hall, still in his field of view, worrying at her hands.

“Yeah,” she nodded, stammering, “I’ll... I’ll go get the chicken.”

Boyd wondered what Raylan said to her before he arrived, but he was wondering much more about that gun.

“Put your weapon on the table,” Raylan said seriously.  “Just like mine, right here.”

Boyd let out a breath.  He should have known Raylan would spot it on him, although he hadn’t really thought to try and conceal it well.  He withdrew the gun from his belt and put it slowly on the table, letting his hand drop to his side.

“Now, sit down,” Raylan said, obviously trying to be hospitable, but the sentiment fell flat seeing as it wasn’t his house or his table.

Boyd swallowed and sat.  He looked at Raylan, whose hair was mussed up, as if from pulling at it, and his eyes were darker than the day before, under the eyes.  Boyd tried to meet those eyes again, wanting to make their old connection, wanting him to remember that there was no reason they still couldn’t be friends.  But Raylan wouldn’t comply.  He was keeping one eye on Boyd’s gun and the other at the door to the kitchen, waiting on Ava.  His fingers were tapping at the tablecloth.

“Raylan,” Boyd finally said, but the man set his jaw and shook his head, like Boyd wouldn’t want to be within thirty feet of what was going on in his mind.

Boyd was prevented from saying more when Ava came in with the food; a big platter of fried chicken and mixed vegetables in one hand and mashed potatoes and gravy in the other.

“Now that looks real good, doesn’t it?”  Raylan said, like nothing at all was wrong, as she placed it on the table, he was looking at Boyd.

“Yes,” he answered quietly.  “Very good.”

Ava turned towards the door and said, “Lemme get you boys some--”

“No,” Raylan cut her off, his voice coming out harsh and Ava cringed.  Boyd just about jumped from his seat right there, but he held himself back by looking at the desperation in Raylan’s eyes.  He could tell this was not what the man wanted to be doing. 

“I’m sorry, Ava,” Raylan said softer.  “I need you to stay here, where I can keep an eye on you, all right?”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding.  “Fine.”

“All right, now let’s help ourselves.”

As Boyd watched Raylan and then Ava pull the food onto their plates, he decided to push, just a little bit.  “I’m sorry, Raylan, but I don’t think I’m hungry right this minute.”

Ava stared at Boyd like he’d just grown a second head.

“Oh, you’re not?”  Raylan sat back, but kept his arm forward, nearer the gun.  “Well,” he smiled, and it was an old smile, the kind he used to give Boyd right along with an opening for a stupid joke.  “What are you, then?”

“I am deeply, deeply concerned, Raylan.  Because it seems to me that you’ve got a terrible weight on your shoulders right now.”  Boyd leaned forward, he pushed himself as close to Raylan as the table would allow.  “And I don’t know exactly what that weight is, but I do know that I can help you.”

“Oh, you can?”  Raylan’s voice was taking on a tone that was as near hysterical as Boyd had ever heard him, and they’d had their fair share of scares in the mine.  His eyes held a level of disturbance and fear that in itself was terrifying.

“Raylan,” Boyd said quietly.  “I’m going to tell you something now, to which few people in this town are privy.  I want you to think very carefully about what it means and how it affects what you are doing here tonight.  Also, I’ll be trusting your discretion.”

Raylan squinted at him, like he was trying to peel back the layers of mystery just by looking.  “Well?”

Boyd took a breath and then began.  “I am, and have been for the past fourteen years, a Special Agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.  I currently work in their headquarters in DC, but I have been a field agent in several major jurisdictions throughout the eastern half of this country.  I’ve taken a leave of absence to attend to... personal matters.  But if I do not return, or tender my resignation within the time allotted by my leave, I have instructed my Agency to lend its resources to an investigation into my disappearance or suspected death.  The U.S. Marshals in Lexington and the State Police have been notified of my involvement in the situation here in Harlan and they will come looking for me.”

Raylan gazed at him with steady eyes and a hard mouth.  Boyd hadn’t wanted to turn the man’s opinion against him, but these were things he needed to know if guns were on the table.  “Why are you telling me this, Boyd?”

“Two reasons,” Boyd returned, counting on his fingers. ”So that you know that I have the resources to get you out of whatever trouble you’re in, and, since it seems likely you have come here to kill me, that there will be consequences for your actions.  I’ve worked my way fairly high up, Raylan.  They’re not going to let someone like me just disappear into the hills of Kentucky.”

Raylan glared at him and looked like a man at the end of his rope.  “There will be consequences, Boyd, regardless of my actions.”

Boyd wasn’t having that.  “There are things I can do for you.  If the cartel thinks they can strong-arm you—”

“It’s not the cartel you should be worrying about, Boyd,” Raylan cut him off angrily.  “You really have no idea what’s going on here, do you?  How can I possibly take anything that you’re offering me seriously?” 

Boyd sat back, his eyes wide, his heart pounding.  Raylan’s eyes were back on his gun.  “Shit,” Boyd blew out.  “Frankfort, then.”

Raylan didn’t say a word.

“They put the hit out on Daddy.”

Silence again.  Raylan’s eyes had moved to Boyd’s gun.

“And they think <i>I’m</i> a danger to their business?”

Raylan shrugged and replied, “I couldn’t say what they think.”

Boyd stared at him, realizing they must have a hostage.  They must have something or someone on Raylan that would have him here with a gun in his hand, looking like he was being torn in two.  “Raylan, Jesus Christ, I am so sorry.”

Again, Boyd’s words were met with silence, all except a tiny sniffle from the left side of the room.  He’d nearly forgotten about Ava.  Boyd looked away from Raylan to see that there were tears streaked across her cheeks and her hands were pressed to her mouth.

No one said anything for at least a minute, but Raylan was growing more and more twitchy by the second.

“ATF, huh,” Raylan finally said, as if he was somehow bored by the revelation.  He looked up at Boyd.  “You think you can outdraw me?” 

“Very probably not, Raylan,” Boyd replied honestly and heard his death in the answer.  “I’m a spec man.  If I’m in the field, I rarely draw my weapon, and if I do, it’s always well before I need to shoot.” 

“You ever shot a man before?” 

“Yes,” he replied simply, and with finality.  Raylan smirked at him and Boyd did not like it. 

“So have I,” Raylan said.  His eyes were on Boyd’s gun, like he wanted him to pick it up, like he wanted an excuse to draw his own. 

“Raylan, I’m not going to do it,” Boyd said firmly and was about to add that they could still figure something out, but then everything happened too quickly.

Raylan lunged across the table and snagged Ava roughly by the arm, dragging her to him, though not getting far.  Ava screamed immediately in terror and when Boyd heard that sound he instinctively picked up his weapon. 

But Raylan knew him.  Raylan was certain of what Boyd would do and his gun was in his hand faster and then the shot was off.

There was a bludgeoning force to Boyd’s chest and suddenly he was on the floor and the gun wasn’t in his hand anymore and he couldn’t breathe and he heard Ava screaming.  The pain in his chest grew to be unbearable and he tried to cough but he still couldn’t breathe.  He stared at the ceiling and realized what had happened.

“You did it,” he said in shallow breaths, “you shot me.”  Raylan Givens had put a bullet in him. 

His chest hurt, a lot, and he still couldn’t breathe.  Ava was next to him, her hand had somehow come into his, grasping hard in worry and fear.  She was saying his name, he thought.

Raylan was standing above him, the gun still in his hand.  “Do it,” Boyd said, coughing.  “But they won’t... leave you alone.”

He didn’t raise it again.  “I’m sorry,” Raylan said, his voice broken, then, “Ava, call an ambulance.  Now.”

Boyd felt her presence leave as she scrambled away.  He felt her absence in his hand. 

He tried to think, knowing what Raylan was doing was wrong, was not the thing to do.  He tried to speak again, but Raylan shook his head and in that movement was a terrible sadness and in his eyes Boyd saw that searching look.   Then Raylan disappeared from Boyd’s sight. 

He might have heard footsteps walking away.  His chest hurt worse than anything and he couldn’t breathe at all.

Time passed, maybe, and Ava returned.  He welcomed her hand again, small and smooth and shaking.  She pressed a towel to his chest and it changed from white to red.  “They said,” she cried, her voice shaking like her hand, “they said I should keep you alert.  Try to talk, but don’t if it hurts too much, o-okay?”

Boyd smiled.  He thought it maybe didn’t hurt as bad now.  “Don’t...” he tried, and forced himself to speak.  “Don’ tell ‘em it was Raylan.  All right?”

Ava shook her head, like maybe it was her imagination, or some kind of nightmare.  But he knew she would listen.  He reached for her, wanting to still her shaking, to give her peace.  She caught the hand in hers and pressed all four of their hands to his wound.  It really didn’t hurt that much anymore. 

“Why did he say that?”  She asked through her tears.  “Why say he was sorry like that?”

There were a million reasons, and Boyd knew Ava knew some of them.  Maybe she just couldn’t think of them, because Boyd at that moment could only think of one.  “We dug coal together.”

  
 _Boyd was swallowed whole by a half-forgotten memory, or a half-remembered dream.  He was with Raylan down in the black, deep down, and they were young and rough and they had the world and their lives before them.   Boyd said_ , Fire in the hole, _and Raylan smiled.  Then the whole world crashed down around their heads. ___


End file.
